There is in this No Gordian Knot
by dimefor12
Summary: Weighed, measure for measure, how much is a life worth?--An argument between brothers after 3.11. Gen.


a/n: hey all, story title taken for E.A. Poe's acrostic poem, _A Valentine. _Also, spoilers for 3.11, _Mystery Spot.  
_Disclaimer? Not mine. I know, surprised me, too.

Hope you enjoy!

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It's quiet in the Impala. After the scene at the hotel Sam figures Dean just wants to drive, put distance between the town and them, between what happened there (_Deandeaddeaddead)_ and Sam. Probably thinks he's protecting his little brother from something, keeping him sane. But privately, Sam knows Dean's just trying to outrun the next hug, the next wave of emotion. The tight jaw his brother sports, his clenched fists on the steering wheel, are Classic Dean: _don't. _

And really, Sam has no intention of talking. It's behind them. The Mystery Spot, the trickster. Gone and gone. Now there's only miles left to drive, and the next case at the end of the road. Until then, Sam plans to glare at the passing landscape and the wilted brown remains of some crop (_dead_) that rushes past his window. Just like usual.

But Dean's "Lighten up, Sammy. Jesus," throws that out the window. Sam can't be sure, but he thinks his vision blacks with anger, for a moment he thinks he might've went blind with it. What he _does _know is that his jaw almost breaks with the effort of talking past that insane rage, he swears he feels enamel flying like sparks as he grits out, "_Lighten up? _Is that the fucking _best _you can do?"

"It wasn't _real_, Sam!" Dean's left hand, curled tight, smacks the wheel. "Get the _fuck _over it!"

"Six months!" Sam watches Deans eyes roll, and fantasizes about pushing his brother's head through the window, "Six months I lived without you; it _happened_. So you don't have the goddamn right to tell me what to do." He turns back to the passing fields, not seeing anything, not thinking anything. _Can't, _because his stupid fucking brother thinks he shouldn't have a care in the world, and if Sam thinks about that, about Dean, about what's going to happen, he'll _die_; he'll break and bleed and Dean won't understand _why_.

"I'm here now." And Sam mutters, "not for long," so low he doesn't think Dean'll hear. But next thing he knows, Dean's swerving off the road, hitting the gravel and grass so hard Sam knows he'll bitch for _hours _after. "This about the deal, again, Sammy? Huh? This about me dying?"

He flicks his eyes toward his brother, meets Dean's gaze and sees concern, sees the _poor Sammy's losing it again _in Technicolor letters all over Dean's face. And that's it, that just _fucking it. _It's either get out or spill blood, and Sam chooses the former--clicks open his seatbelt and shoves the door open so hard that it swings back and almost catches him on the shins before he stops it. Then it's freedom, and slamming it closed. If his legs ache from the cramped ride, he can't feel it, and stalks off.

Space. He just needs space, and where they've stopped is boundless with it. So he walks, thinks about the ground firm beneath him, slightly rolling but _stable_. He wonders why nothing else is; why everything around him seems to twist and turn and dump him on his ass. It's not anything but death and fire and guilt--

And Dean's hand gripping his arm. _Too much, _and he turns faster than Dean's ready for, making his brother stumble towards him, and Sam's arm lashes out, fist connecting with chin, and changing Dean's forward momentum into _away._

For a moment Sam thinks they're going to fight; here, under the empty blue sky, they're going to drag out their issues with hands and legs until they're bloody and bruised--too exhausted to be anything but empty. But Dean stills, one hand raised to his face; his bottom lip is torn where teeth must have mashed flesh. He doesn't speak, doesn't move, and into that silence Sam says, "You aren't just _dying, _Dean! That's the problem. It's not like it's cancer; you're going to hell. _Hell--_"

"I know. Okay. I know that. But what was I supposed to do? You were dead! I didn't have a lot of choices left, man. I did what I had to." Sam watches the blood slowly trickle to fill the cracks in his brother's lips; the crimson tinge makes Dean's skin look sickly. _It's not cancer._

"No. You did what you wanted. You didn't bring me back for my sake, Dean, face it. You had no right to do it. Come on, we both know that what's dead should stay dead. _I should be dead._ And you know what? You bitched and moaned about Dad. How it wasn't fair what he did to you, but you got it easy, man. He got one day, and you didn't even know he bargained his life for yours until it was over. I got the rest of this year to watch you and know you're gonna die and what's waiting for you. That you got a one-way express ticket." His breath is stuttering with the pressure in his chest, against his heartbeat that's pounding in his ears, behind his eyes, but he spits out, "_That's _what I've got, what I'll be left with..."

The truth of it steals what little breath he's got. There's nothing more to say, he realizes. There's nothing that he knows, or that Dean can do, to make this right. Dean will go to hell, and Sam will be left alone, the last of his family. And what? Dean thinks he'll be able to go back to his life, the life he created in California. But Sam knows now that he can never reclaim that, never take that up again, because it was never _his_ to have. He'll hunt. He'll go after everything he was trained to, and he'll die. He'll get killed by some nasty that comes along, because the truth is that he's never hunted without Dean, and he knows--despite his six month romp created by the Trickster--that he never could. He'll die anyway, and Dean'll have gone to hell for nothing.

It's funny, really, but the laughter bubbling up feels like a wound. So typical of the Winchesters--the sacrifice, the pain, and for it all to be so useless. It's them, in a nutshell, and he wonders how Dean hasn't realized it, hasn't come to the same conclusion he has. Maybe he has and ignored it, or maybe he won't ever know. Sam won't tell him, unless Dean says it first, because he may be cruel and selfish but even he knows where the line is drawn. And to say, _you're gonna burn for nothing _is way past it.

"Look," Dean's voice is hoarse, and from the wetness in his eyes it's not from yelling. "Look, I'm sorry, man. I am. I don't think I made the wrong decision, but I'm sorry you gotta live with it."

Sam narrows his eyes, stares at his brother for one long moment, then begins to walk, back towards the road, the Impala. "Yeah," he says, hitting Dean's shoulder with his own as he passes, "Yeah, okay. Let's go."

fin

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